


we'll pass the mic around

by laureljay



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laureljay/pseuds/laureljay
Summary: Michael leans back against the headrest and gazes up at the roof of the car. These two just keeptestinghim.Michael, Jeremy, and Christine, in the few months after the play.





	we'll pass the mic around

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Karaoke" by Smallpools.

Michael tries to be jealous of Christine. He really does. It’s the done thing, isn’t it? He’s not supposed to like her; he’s supposed to resent her. Without her, Jeremy might have been happy enough to just let things be, instead of getting swept up into a mess that Michael had to help clean up. Without her, it might still have been the two of them. And with just the two of them, maybe—

But none of that is true, not really. Jeremy was unhappy with his circumstances, and he took steps to change them, and even though those steps took the form of an enormous screwup that could have killed countless people and ended life on Earth, none of that is Christine’s fault. As it is, her presence or absence has no real bearing on the amount of interest that Jeremy might have in _him_ – which, as far as Michael can tell, is none.

Even if he did have good reasons not to like her, Michael suspects he would have a hard time with it. Because Christine is shy for the first few days they all eat lunch together, but when she starts to open up, starts to make jokes and talk about music and wave at Michael when she sees him in the hallway, he thinks he understands what Jeremy was talking about when he used to look at her from across a room and let his voice go dreamy and soft. She’s just so _charming_, he would say. And Michael’s thoroughly charmed.

So when she says, “Jeremy and I had an idea, and we need a ride. You wanna go bowling after school?” he only hesitates for a moment before saying _sure, why not?_

* * *

They fill him in on the basics of the plan on the drive over, and agree on the cover story: they’ve been at Michael’s house the whole time, of course Michael can vouch for them, he’s trustworthy and a good influence, nothing to worry about.

Michael’s not entirely sure that Jeremy’s dad knows what being grounded means. In theory, the rules seem reasonable enough – Jeremy can’t go anywhere unless accompanied by someone responsible, and he has to be back for dinner unless he gets advance approval – right up until the part where _Michael_ counts as responsible.

Jeremy and Christine do end up getting kicked out of the bowling alley for the stunt they pull. It doesn’t detract from the performance, Michael thinks, from his lookout three lanes away. If anything, the abrupt ending matches the energy Christine quite literally pushes into her character. Jeremy’s not the star of the show here, but he puts little details into his performance – he wraps the bowling ball in his sweater, pretends to let it gum on his finger – that would play very well with a more attentive audience than a seniors’ bowling team and three uncomfortable-looking employees.

There’s a familiar tug in Michael’s chest when he sees Jeremy smiling, a giddy desire to see it again. To cause it himself. Well, at least he and the PT Cruiser could facilitate it.

The manager who actually chases them out is a middle-aged woman with a blonde ponytail. She is exactly the kind of older lady who finds Michael endlessly amusing, which means he’s going to be able to do some damage control. Other kids have never liked Michael much, and the feeling’s been mutual except for a select few, but he’s always found it easy to charm adults. They look at him and see a goofy gay kid trying his best, and whether they genuinely like that or just pity it, the end result is the same.

He counts to a hundred and twenty to give her time to cool down, then approaches her, trying to look as meek and sheepish as possible. “Excuse me? Um, I am _so_ sorry about my friends, they were totally out of line, you got to them before I could,” he gushes. “My friend is _really_ trying to impress this girl, you know how it is,” and he gives her his most winsome smile.

For a moment, she looks skeptical, even irritated. But Michael presses on. “You know, they met here, actually! They’re worried they won’t be allowed to come back.” He’s laying it on thick, and he holds his breath for a moment, afraid she’ll be able to tell that he’s lying, but the manager’s expression softens. He’s pulled it off.

“Well,” she says, “usually we wouldn’t let someone back in after a display like that. But if they met here, well.” She thinks for a moment. “Tell them to come back in a month. If they can behave themselves.”

He thanks her effusively and hears her say something else about young love, but he’s already on his way out to the parking lot. Jeremy and Christine are sitting on the hood of the car, holding hands, and he has a flash of fear that he’s ruining a moment. Then Jeremy looks up and beams at him.

“How’d it go?”

“Jeremy Heere. Christine Canigula,” Michael intones. “You are hereby banned from Middleborough Lanes for…” he takes a deep breath, drawing out the suspense. “One month.”

They both cheer, loud enough that the other people in the parking lot turn to stare. Christine actually leans forward and throws her arms around Michael in her excitement. He laughs and squeezes her back, letting himself get caught up in the triumph of the moment.

“Michael to the rescue,” Jeremy singsongs, inching closer to Christine to make room for Michael to sit on the other side of him. “Thanks, dude. What’s that I owe you, now? A thousand and one?”

The real answer is _it doesn’t matter, I couldn’t stop doing what you asked even if I wanted to_, but the situation demands a less intense response, so Michael says, “Give or take a few,” and doesn’t let his expression waver.

Jeremy nudges Christine. “So? Was it everything you wanted it to be?”

“Almost perfect. I have a couple things I’d do differently next time,” she says, “not that I think we could get away with it twice.” She leans forward to look at Michael and gives him a shy smile, apparently self-conscious of her previous display of affection. “Thanks for helping us out,” she says.

“Hey, no big deal. I got a free show out of it,” he replies, hopping back off the hood of the car. “Want me to drop you guys off at home? Or a restaurant or something?” He winks at Christine. “That motel on Tenth Street?”

Jeremy smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Up to you, Christine. What’s next?”

She thinks about it, worrying at one of the buttons on her jacket. Then she says, “There’s a diner near my house we could go to,” and it’s clear that by _we_ she means her and Jeremy. “But— do you guys wanna do something tomorrow? The three of us?” Jeremy nods, and they give Michael a second to think about it as they all get into the car.

Michael says, “We could hang out in my basement for a while, if you guys don’t have anything in mind. So we’re not _totally_ lying about having been at my place.” He doesn’t say _get stoned_, because he has no idea if Christine would want to. “My moms both work, so it’s just us and a TV and no one to bother us. Except my cat.”

“That could be fun,” she says, and he doesn’t miss the way she perks up at the word _cat_. “We’ll meet you in the parking lot after school, then?”

* * *

True to her word, when Michael gets out of class, Christine’s already there in the parking lot. When he approaches her, she closes her book and waves, looking so genuinely happy to see him that he turns around to see if Jeremy’s behind him and she’s reacting to him instead.

But Jeremy’s last class of the day is on the fourth floor, so he’s got farther to walk than Michael or, apparently, Christine. He’s probably still a few minutes away. It’s just the two of them.

“I brought money for snacks,” she says. “Although maybe I should have just brought snacks. I didn’t know what you guys would want. And I had something I wanted to ask but I for—Oh! What’s your cat’s name?”

“Uh. Mister Fluff. My moms let me name him when I was four.” He chuckles as he says it. “And I was gonna make us stop for slushies anyway, so if you wanna get snacks too, that’s cool.”

“Mister Fluff,” she repeats. “That’s the cutest thing that’s ever happened in the state of New Jersey. Possibly the whole Eastern seaboard.” She squints past him and says, “Hey, there you are,” just as Jeremy taps his shoulder. Michael has never had anyone else to talk to while he waited for Jeremy before; the sheer novelty of him being here without Michael seeing him coming makes him jump out of his skin.

Michael’s basement is set up for two people: two beanbag chairs, two controllers per video game console. Christine doesn’t seem to mind. She sits cross-legged on the fluffy orange carpet Michael’s moms bought when they went through a seventies-retro phase and bequeathed to him as soon as they came to their senses.

“Oh, cool, you have a Switch!” she says, face lighting up. “My sister has one. Do you guys have _Smash_?”

“Hell yes,” Michael says, and he catches Jeremy’s eye and mouths _hell yes_, and just like that the routine is set.

* * *

They don’t spend every afternoon together. On Mondays, Christine’s mom and stepdad both work late, and she has to go straight home to babysit her younger brothers. On Thursdays, she and Jeremy stay after school for drama. The next school play hasn’t been announced yet – Mr. Reyes claims to want to give the Middleborough High audience enough time to truly absorb _Midsummer_’s genius before distracting them with anything else. Instead, the kids who still show up – the two of them, Jake, Chloe, and Brooke are the only regular attendees – practice monologues and do readthroughs of other Shakespeare plays. Jenna Rolan helps Mr. Reyes in his classroom during lunch a few times a week, and she tells them he’s leaning toward an “adaptation” of _As You Like It_ next.

But that leaves three afternoons a week that the three of them pile into Michael’s car for the ten-minute drive to his place. They grab something to eat from the kitchen (unless they’ve already gone on a snack run) and pad downstairs. They play games, share weird YouTube videos they find, and occasionally get stoned – Christine smokes with them sometimes, but not always – until Jeremy has to leave for dinner. They all hug goodbye, and Jeremy walks Christine home; they all live close by, in a subdivision a few miles east of the high school.

Their weekends are more varied. Jeremy and Christine, officially a couple now, go out on dates, leaving Michael to his own devices. He makes his best effort to give them space to just be with each other, and it’s mostly fine. He’s mostly not jealous, mostly just happy that Jeremy’s happy, that _they’re _happy.

He finds himself hanging out with Jenna when he can. She’s the easiest of their newfound squad for him to spend time with, because she is content to do most or all of the talking and Michael can just listen and not have to say anything. It takes a lot of pressure off. Jake is also an option, when he’s not busy. He’s comically excited when he finds out that he and Michael like some of the same sports teams (and sure, Michael doesn’t _play_ any sports that involve an actual physical body, but he was raised by a pair of butch lesbians from Queens. He knows what he’s talking about).

Sometimes they go out with all the popular kids together, to the mall or to get high in the park. The rest of them seem to like Michael, first as a reliable source of weed and then as a person, once he works up the nerve to say anything more to them than “Another hit?”

* * *

There’s friction between Jeremy, Brooke, and Chloe for a couple of weeks. Michael knows the basic story – Brooke caught them together-but-not-really in a plot by Chloe to make Jake jealous, and God, these people are exhausting – but Jeremy hasn’t gotten over it the way the girls seem to. He doesn’t like to look right at them, and he leaves so much space between himself and them, even when they’re all squished into a booth at the Panda Express and it’s totally reasonable to be touching knees with the person next to you, and he seems like he just wants to escape their notice altogether. It doesn’t sit right with Michael, so on the drive home that Saturday night, he asks the rearview mirror, “Are you and Chloe okay?”

Jeremy turns away from the window, where he’s been watching dark gray clouds move east, and lets out this big sigh, like Michael’s just asked him to do him a quick favor and hold up the weight of the world for a few minutes. “Yes. Well. Kind of?”

Christine reaches between the front seats and turns the radio off. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jeremy says, “No.” A pause. “At the Halloween party? I tried to stop her.” He swallows audibly. “The Squip wouldn’t let me. I think it would have made me have sex with her.”

“Hang on,” Michael says, because the world starts flashing bright red and he can’t see well enough to drive. He pulls over, puts the car in park, and turns around to face Jeremy and Christine, whose face has lost all color. “_What? _What do you mean, it would have made you?”

Jeremy pretends to be deeply invested in the structural integrity of his seatbelt. “It froze me so I couldn’t get away or push her off,” he says. “I don’t think she knew anything was wrong. She was really wasted.”

“How did you get out of it?” Christine asks, eyebrows furrowing. “When mine wanted me to do something, I couldn’t just decide not to.”

He shakes his head. “Chloe offered me a drink and it made me drink it, but the alcohol screwed it up and it let me go. Left me alone for, like, an hour.”

_It’s…off._ Michael suppresses a shudder. “Jere, I’m sorry.” He can’t think of anything more reassuring to say.

Christine nods. “Me, too.” Then, softly, “Should we stop hanging out with her? Is it too much?”

“No!” Jeremy says immediately. “I mean, I’m not mad at her, really. Not about that. She knew getting caught with me would hurt Brooke and she didn’t care, and that was shitty of her. But none of the—” he makes a broad, all-encompassing gesture – “was her fault. And I want to talk to her about it but I don’t know where to start. I can’t tell her the truth. It’s like, ‘hey Chloe, remember how we all did ecstasy? Well, it was actually a mind-control device and it wanted me to take advantage of you and I probably would’ve if it hadn’t disabled itself.’”

“When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound great, no,” Michael deadpans.

“So maybe you shouldn’t tell her the whole truth,” Christine says thoughtfully. “But what about, ‘hey Chloe, you know that super strong stuff we did at the play, well, I had some of it on Halloween and it made it hard to tell what was real so I had trouble telling you not to touch me but I super didn’t want you to do that and I hope you feel the same way in hindsight?’”

Jeremy looks up at her. “That…might actually work,” he hedges.

“It’s a start, at least,” Christine says. She reaches to take his hand, but he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts into the middle seat to wrap his arms around her.

Michael, who has begun to feel like the biggest third wheel on the planet, turns around to start the car again (they’ve been parked in front of a stranger’s house for long enough now that he’s concerned the homeowner will come out and yell at them), when Jeremy grabs his arm. “Hey, don’t go anywhere.”

Christine says, “Yeah, join the emotional support pile.”

Michael leans back against the headrest and gazes up at the roof of the car. These two just keep _testing_ him. “Fine,” he says, “shove over,” and he manages to wedge himself through the gap between the front seats. It’s a feat he’s rather proud of; the car is very small, and Michael is very not.

He nestles in, shifting to the left side to make room for Jeremy to actually sit in the middle and not in Christine’s lap, and leans against him, stretching an arm out behind the headrests. He accidentally comes into contact with Christine, and gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t understand how you got from up there to back here,” she murmurs sometime later. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” he says. “How did you get through the whole script for what to say to Chloe without stopping to breathe?”

“Years of singing lessons. My diaphragm is _ripped_, bro.”

“Your Jake impression needs work,” Michael teases. He thinks Jeremy might have dozed off – his eyes are closed, head resting on Christine’s shoulder.

He gets out of the car and back into the driver’s seat, rather than crawl over Jeremy and risk waking him up. While they were parked, it must have started to rain, because in the ten seconds he’s outside his sweater gets soaked, but it’s fine.

* * *

The next weekend they spend together, Michael catches Jeremy sitting with Chloe, half-listening to her talk about her AP Lit class. He looks a little nervous, and a little confused by the intricacies of Toni Morrison analysis, but mostly content.

* * *

Jeremy gets a big Bluetooth speaker, a contribution to the group space the basement has become, and they spend a day testing it out in different places in the room, at different volumes, looking for the best acoustics they can get.

Control of the speaker rotates daily: Christine, then Michael, then Jeremy. Obviously, Michael likes his music the best; he tries to keep it interesting, switching it up between reggae, video game soundtracks, and early synthpop. He knows Jeremy will put up with anything Michael plays – in the past, they have left the same album on repeat for hours – but he figures Christine might appreciate his putting a good foot (ear?) forward.

Jeremy doesn’t share that concern. He freely admits to having gotten his taste in music directly from his parents; give him a heroin addict who peaked in the seventies, and he’s content. None of it is _bad_, necessarily. Michael just can’t tell the difference between any of the songs. The most modern thing Jeremy’s got going for him is that his cousin plays bass in a rock band. He’s taken Michael into the city to see them perform a couple times, at outdoor venues with no shade where the band had to sneak them in because admission was free with a two-beer minimum. Michael has a free copy of their debut EP on a flash drive.

Christine has two modes: showtunes and high-energy pop songs by women. Both categories tend to be good songs to dance to. Her days on the speaker almost always end up being their cardio for the week.

“My parents started me on ballet classes as soon as I could walk by myself,” she says by way of explanation. It was an act of great foresight, Michael thinks, because in addition to her insatiable need to put on a show for people, Christine is an _intensely _physically expressive person. Most people talk with their hands when they get excited; she talks with her whole body, at all times. She loves to dance, and when she starts to move, it’s nearly impossible not to join her.

Like now, as the first notes to her current favorite song play. Her head starts to bob, then her shoulders, then she’s up on her feet, hips swaying, a grin spreading across her face. She taps Jeremy’s shoulder, making a beckoning motion, and he joins in. He thinks he’s a terrible dancer, but he’s got a better sense of rhythm than he gives himself credit for, shoulders snapping forward when she sways toward him, pulling back when she does, so they mirror each other.

Michael likes to watch them together. He doesn’t know if that makes him a creep. It’s not like he’s ogling them – usually, okay, Jeremy has a nice butt – they just have good instincts, and good chemistry, and they have so much fun with each other.

But if he’s the only one not dancing, it’s weird, so she doesn’t have to invite him; he’s already moving. Christine’s wide grin has settled itself into a suave half-smile to match the tempo, but she nearly breaks character when she sees him, the corners of her mouth twitching up. Michael’s repertoire is limited to moves that were probably cool in the late eighties, with a sprinkle of moves that were definitely not cool even in the late eighties. Whatever. He’s owning it. By the chorus, all three of them are on their feet, SNES controllers abandoned on the floor as they move in time with the bass.

The second verse is racier than the first, and Christine’s mouthing the words, pressing her fingertips to Jeremy’s chest and then twisting away before he can touch her, leaving him flushed bright pink as she and Michael try not to laugh. Then she’s onto Michael, stretching up to tap his nose lightly along with the beat. He reaches for her hand – this is a game they play sometimes, and she always dodges him as he tries to catch her in the act – only today, he manages to wrap his fingers around her skinny wrist as she pulls her hand back. She jumps from the shock, lets out a yelp, loses her balance, and stumbles back, pulling Michael with her. Everything tips sideways.

She lands ass-first on the carpet, helpfully cushioning Michael, who narrowly avoids knocking her head against the floor when he lands on her.

He rolls away, and they trade a look – _I’m okay, are you okay? _– before Christine starts to laugh. Michael is about to laugh, too, when the thought _she’s so cute when she’s happy_ hits him like the time his moms took him to a baseball game and a foul ball flew from the third baseman’s bat directly into his ribs, and all he can do is wheeze.

It’s exactly the same feeling Michael had years ago, when they were little kids. When Jeremy’s mom took them to get ice cream or to GameStop or something equally meaningless, and Jeremy smiled at him, and he first felt the tug, really felt it and knew what it meant. He doesn’t know what it means now.

He decides the best course of action is just to pretend it’s not happening.

When he comes back to the present, Jeremy is kneeling next to him, making concerned noises. Michael isn’t sure he can talk yet, so he just gives a thumbs-up and waves him away.

“Come sit on the floor,” Christine says, tugging at Jeremy’s sleeve, “it’s where all the cool kids are,” so he does, stretching out next to her. The song ends, and the next one begins, but they’re distracted, chatting, and the dance party’s over for the day.

Michael feels that tug, again and again. He opts to ignore it, again and again. The rest of November passes this way.

* * *

Hanukkah is the first week of December this year. On Monday, Jeremy brings in a mesh bag of foil-wrapped chocolate coins and hands them out to anyone who’ll take one. By the end of third period, the bag is empty, and Rich and Jake spend the rest of the day trying to get balls of foil into trash cans from increasing distances. Jeremy is politely but firmly asked not to bring in snacks again.

For the rest of the week, Jeremy brings three pieces a day. They eat them in secret, and Jeremy collects the wrappers to throw out at home.

Christine always leaves town for Christmas break. She has family in California, a grandmother and an uncle and some precious baby cousins whose pictures she shows Jeremy and Michael. She tells Jeremy how much she’ll miss him while she’s gone, and he says he’ll text her every day and call her too, if she wants.

Before she leaves, on the last day of school before the break, she gives them their respective holiday presents. They’re hand-knit hats, light blue with a pattern of gray blocks near the crown for Jeremy and red with a black brim for Michael, who’s quietly grateful to see that it fits over his headphones without being too big.

“I’m sorry yours is a little late, Jere,” she says as he tries it on. “They’re not hard to make, but sometimes I get distracted before I finish them.”

“No, it’s perfect,” he says, and it is. It looks adorable on him, soft and comfortable and just long enough that he has to fold the brim up to keep it from covering his eyes. He wears it for the rest of the day, only taking it off when teachers snap at him about it. When Christine looks over and sees him wearing it, the pride that shines on her face is like looking into the sun.

Really, they’re sickening. Saccharine. Too cute for words. Michael loves it almost as much as it makes him want to puke.

* * *

“What’s that thing,” he asks Jeremy, when they’re stoned on Christmas Eve, just the two of them, “the thing where you love someone so much you throw up?”

Jeremy looks at him blankly.

“Or, like, not throw up. You choke or something. It’s, like, a made-up thing.” He closes his eyes, trying to remember. “Maybe _I _made it up.”

“Why would you make that up?” Jeremy looks like he did during freshman biology when they had to memorize the steps of the citric acid cycle. Michael got a 69 on that test. Heh. “Who would you be in love with that would make you do that?”

“What?” It takes him a second to find the thread of the conversation again. “Oh. No one, I guess. Never mind.”

* * *

Christmas Day is a Wednesday this year; on Saturday, they take the train into New York City, a present for both of them from Jeremy’s dad. They both insist that it’s for Mr. Heere’s sake, that he can’t spend another day with Jeremy lazing around the house, but Michael can see the gesture of renewed trust underneath it.

The ride into Penn Station is the same as always: bumpy, vaguely nauseating, and mind-numbingly dull. He plays crossword games on his phone to kill the time, Jeremy leaning over his shoulder to give him hints.

Michael has been to the city enough times in his life to know that Midtown is actually kind of lame, and that all the cool stuff is in Greenwich Village and Brooklyn, but as they step out of the station complex and onto Seventh Avenue, he’s still struck by the _scale_ of it. This is the least crowded he’s ever seen this street, but there are still more people passing him in a minute than he thinks he’d see in a day at home. It’s easy to get swept up into the flow of traffic, and Jeremy seems perfectly happy to just pick a direction and walk in it.

They end up going north, vaguely Central Park-bound, taking the occasional strange turn and finding their way back to familiar ground. The sky and the ground are nearly the same flat gray, but there are splashes of color everywhere, from the awnings of food carts to the banners advertising Broadway shows.

Near the northeastern end of Times Square, they pass a theatre that looks older than every other building on the block combined. Jeremy has to get a photo, so he crosses the street, weaving between cars and ignoring Michael’s “Hey, watch out!” to get the entire off-white façade into frame.

“I bet she could tell me every show that ran here for the past twenty years,” he says, typing a message for Christine to go with the picture as Michael scans the posters hung on the wall outside the box office. The place is familiar, though he can’t pinpoint why; he thinks his moms might have taken him here as a kid.

“Girl’s got superpowers,” he confirms. “Tell her I said hey.”

“Mm-hm.” Jeremy sticks his phone back in his pocket, and they start walking again. They’re quiet for a moment, before he says, “I, uh. I’m glad you like her.”

“Who, Christine?” Michael says, as if there’s any other _her_ they could have to talk about. “Of course I like her.” She’s wonderful. “She’s awesome.”

“That’s, uh. Good.” Jeremy fidgets, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat and then pulling them back out to rub at his neck. “I was worried, when we got together. That you wouldn’t get along. That you’d think I was abandoning you again.” He reaches out and puts his arm around Michael.

“I know you’re not,” Michael says. “I almost lost you once. I’m not gonna let it happen again.” And then, because that’s too much emotional vulnerability for one conversation, he adds, “But I’m not saving you from another AI revolution.”

“Oh, of course not. Not until I save _you_ once, and we’re even again.” He squeezes Michael a little tighter, and they walk like that until they have to split up to let an impatient speedwalker through. Jeremy takes the opportunity to fish his phone back out of his pocket. He unlocks it, smiles at the screen, and turns it to show Michael.

It’s a photo of Christine, too close to the camera, wearing an expression that reminds him of the shocked-face emoji. The caption reads: _AAAA super jealous! Hi Michael!! Love u guys!!!_

* * *

It’s the middle of January, and they’re stoned, and Michael says, “Did I save the world?”

“Not yet,” Jeremy says, “there’s still four more levels.”

“No, I mean. The real world.” Jeremy looks up at him now, and Christine too. They’re nestled together, his fingers running lazily through her hair. Michael wonders how that feels, and he thinks the answer is probably _amazing_. “Did that really happen? Did I save the real world?”

“Like, from the Squips?” Christine asks. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“I dunno,” Michael hedges. “It feels like someone should have noticed? We came pretty close to the robot uprising, and it wasn’t even on the news. I don’t know if anyone even knows what happened except us.”

Jeremy looks puzzled. “Are you saying you want _credit_ for saving the world?”

“No!” Michael says. “Or maybe. Doesn’t the hero get anything? The fame, the money? The girl?”

He keeps a straight face for exactly three seconds after that last part. Then he giggles, and then Jeremy’s on the floor, laughing so hard Michael thinks he might suffocate.

“Michael,” he wheezes, “the girl? Really? What girl?”

“Not _a_ girl. The Girl, capital G. Like in the movies, how the Hero gets the Girl.”

“Putting aside the fact that no girl is a reward to be won, aren’t you gay?” Christine asks.

“That’s not the point!” Michael throws his hands up, ignoring the question. “I never said I would _accept _the Girl. All I’m saying is, it would be nice to be _asked_.”

“Fine then.” Christine stands up, dusts herself off, and plonks herself down in Michael’s lap so they’re nose-to-nose. “Michael Mell, in light of your service to the state of New Jersey and all of humanity, you have been awarded a Girl.” She adopts a ridiculously over-the-top, clipped accent, but at least she’s properly capitalizing _Girl_. She winds her arms around his neck, almost like she would with Jeremy but not quite as intense.

Wait, what. Michael knows he’s supposed to have a snarky response ready, but he comes up empty for about two seconds longer than normal. Christine is giving him a goofy grin and when he looks over her shoulder he sees a similar expression on Jeremy’s face.

“Ah,” he says finally, “yeah, I’m good, thanks,” smoothing her skirt down where it’s ridden up her thigh. “See? Now I feel appreciated.” Christine giggles and untangles herself from him, but doesn’t actually move to get up. Michael doesn’t make her, and he doesn’t take his palm off of her leg either, but if she notices, she doesn’t care.

“Do I not appreciate you enough?” Jeremy asks, frowning. “I’ll build a shrine. Start a cult. We’ll call ourselves the Mellites. Wait, no. I think that’s a disease.” He waves that thought away. “We can pick a name later.”

“I don’t want a cult, idiot,” Michael says, gently. “Just play _Apocalypse_ with me and don’t do any more stupid shit.”

A shadow of something that looks like disappointment crosses Jeremy’s face, but it’s gone fast, and he says, “I can do that,” picking up the controller and unpausing the game.

* * *

It’s been a cheerful afternoon, if a little quiet. They’re between games, Jeremy in a beanbag chair and Christine sprawled out on the floor next to him; Michael is digging through a box of Switch cartridges – Christine has a visible respect for how much he and Jeremy love vintage games, but they also clearly bore her, so they try to play a couple from different decades each day – when Jeremy takes a deep breath and says, “I can still hear it, sometimes. Uh, talking to me.”

They both turn to face him. Michael figures he’s missed the beginning of an actual conversation and just says, “Huh?”

But Christine’s eyes are even wider than usual. “You mean…?” She gestures to the side of her neck, and _now_ Michael gets it. He abandons the cartridge search and sits cross-legged on the floor next to her, and reaches out a hand to Jeremy, who has the same queasy look on his face he always gets when he says something he’d like to take back.

“It’s okay, guys, I swear.” Jeremy grabs Michael’s hand and squeezes it, and puts his other hand on the closest available part of Christine, which happens to be her calf. She sits up, using Michael’s shoulder to lever herself off the floor, and puts one hand over his. “I don’t think it can hurt me.” Jeremy laughs uncomfortably. “I don’t think it can do anything anymore.”

“Jere, what is it saying to you? Does it want you to do stuff? Do you wanna try more Mountain Dew Red?” Distantly, Michael knows he’s asking questions without leaving Jeremy any room to answer, but he’s having trouble even leaving room for himself to breathe between sentences, so he feels like it evens out. He turns to Christine. “Do you hear anything? Is it still there? Are you—”

Jeremy cuts him off by pulling him into a tight hug, muffling the rest of his sentence with a faceful of sweater. “Michael. Relax,” he says, “I’m fine, we’re all fine.”

Christine puts her hand on Michael’s shoulder, slow but firm, like she does when she’s trying not to frighten Mr. Fluff. “I don’t hear anything,” she murmurs. “Well, unless you count when I ask myself ‘what would RBG do?’ but then it’s just my own guess at what she’d say. No evil robots involved.”

Michael and Jeremy both chuckle at that, and some of the terror swirling in Michael’s mind ebbs away. “Okay,” he says, nodding into Jeremy’s chest, “okay,” and they let him go. Jeremy leans back in his chair. Christine loosens her hold on Michael’s shoulder but doesn’t take her hand away.

“I already tried to get rid of it again,” Jeremy says. “I drank some out of the bottle under your bed while you were in the bathroom, like, the day after I got out of the hospital.”

“And it didn’t work?” Christine asks, eyebrows raised.

“I mean, it gave me a pretty bad headache, and I didn’t hear anything for a couple days, but then it came back.”

“Is it telling you to do anything weird? Take over the world? Listen to shitty rap music?” Michael prods.

Jeremy shakes his head. “Mostly it just says,” and he affects a SoCal bro accent so heavy it nearly bleaches his hair blond, “’_Jeremy? Can you hear me? Are you listening, Jeremy?_’”

Michael turns to Christine, who looks like she was equally unprepared for what just happened, and they take a second to bask in the what-the-fuck-ness of the moment.

Then Christine starts to giggle, and Michael can’t help but join her. They laugh until they can’t breathe, nearly drowning out Jeremy’s “What’s so funny, assholes?”

Between bouts of laughter, Christine breathes, “Why would it sound like that? Did it always do that?”

“Uh, yeah? Keanu Reeves talked like that in the _Bill and Ted_ movies.”

This is evidently too much for Christine. She sinks back onto the floor, shoulders shaking, pulling Michael with her until they’re both spread out on the rug, cackling like hyenas. “You jerk! You said – I thought you meant, like, from _The Matrix_,” she shrieks. Michael isn’t surprised, necessarily, that Jeremy would want life advice from Ted Logan rather than Neo, but Christine’s incredulous reaction is as much fun as the revelation itself.

“_Anyway_,” Jeremy says, crossing his arms. “So it asks if I can hear it and I try to ignore it until it gives up, but sometimes I answer ‘yes’ as, like, a reflex? ‘Cause when someone calls your name, you just answer?” Michael and Christine have mostly gotten themselves together, occasional giggle fits notwithstanding, and they both nod for him to go on. “So it tries to tell me what to do. Like, _you talk too much, your shoes are lame, people think you’re weird_, that kinda thing.” He chuckles a little. “Once I answered it and it said _your shirt has a grease stain on it, don’t go to school in that_, and I looked, and it was totally clean. I don’t really think it knows what’s going on anymore.”

“Weird,” Michael says, momentarily unable to come up with anything that isn’t a colossal understatement.

“Fucked up,” Christine adds solemnly. Michael has never heard her swear before.

“Yeah.” Jeremy shrugs. “I guess we could try more MDR, if you guys are worried? But it pretty much turns me into a vegetable for the rest of the day, so I’d rather skip it unless I have to.”

“It’s up to you,” Christine says immediately. “If you think you’re okay, we trust you.” She elbows Michael in the ribs – she’s _pointy_, ow – and says, “Right, Michael?”

“…Right. But you have to promise you’ll tell us if it gets any weirder.”

“I promise.” Jeremy joins them in their rug-sprawl, elbowing and kicking until he’s sandwiched between them. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’d better not,” Michael mumbles, turning to face Jeremy. They’re so close that their noses are nearly touching, and suddenly it’s too earnest for Michael to handle. “Without you, whose ass would I kick at Mario Kart?”

“No one’s,” Jeremy agrees. “You need an easy target.”

* * *

Everything goes back to normal. Everything _is_ normal, until it isn’t. When they beat an _Apocalypse _level, Michael landing the final hit, Christine and Jeremy share a celebratory peck on the lips, which is normal.

Then Christine says, “Hey, Michael,” and when he looks their way, Jeremy leans close and kisses _him, _which is entirely not normal. It’s just a second, a brush of their lips, and then he pulls back, searching Michael’s face for a reaction.

For his part, Michael’s brain has bluescreened, stuck on one thought – _finally –_ and it takes about five seconds to reboot. He blinks, once, and says, “What.”

Which is not the reaction Jeremy was hoping for. He drops his head into his hands. “Fuck. Chris, I fucked it up,” he mutters. Christine puts one hand on his knee and reaches out to Michael with the other.

He takes it uneasily. Her nails are cut short and painted in an alternating pattern of teal and purple. “What is happening right now? Were you…cool with that?” he asks.

She nods once. “Were you?”

“I. Think so.” He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Wait. Did you guys plan this?”

Jeremy picks up his head, nods helplessly, and returns it to his palms. Christine says, “Sort of. We were trying to figure out how to do it, and you beat the boss and you looked so happy that we just kinda figured, why not?”

“Why not,” Michael echoes. He says, “You didn’t fuck anything up, Jere. You just surprised me.”

Jeremy looks up, his eyes shining like he’s about to cry. He lets Michael wrap his arms around him and move in closer, close enough to kiss again if either of them leaned in.

“I’ve had a crush on you since we were ten,” Michael sighs, pressing his face against the side of Jeremy’s neck. Maybe he can stay right here for the rest of his life and never have to deal with the consequences of any of this.

Jeremy strokes his back, unsure but still trying to be comforting. “I had no idea until after the play,” he says. “But I figured it out. We did, really.” He gestures to Christine, who Michael can’t see because he’s still cuddled up to Jeremy. “And we want to try it out. If you do.”

“Try what, exactly?” Michael asks, finally accepting the need to pull away and look them both in the eyes.

Jeremy says, “We thought we’d take it one step at a time and see.” He tilts his head. “Can I kiss you again?”

The question leaves Michael’s mouth too dry to speak, so he just nods, a little frantically. Jeremy makes a quiet, happy sound, and presses his mouth to Michael’s. It’s awkward at first – their noses bump together, then their glasses, until Jeremy takes his off and sets them on an end table – but then Michael’s _tongue_ is in Jeremy’s _mouth_ and his heart’s going to stop. He feels like someone’s tossed a lit match down his throat, heat spreading through his body, to his cheeks, past his stomach, faster than he can track. Jeremy must be feeling it, too; when they break for air, he’s panting, cheeks red, eyes dark.

“Wait, slow down,” he gasps. “Need a minute.”

Every cell in Michael’s lizard brain is telling him to put his mouth on Jeremy’s neck, to grind against him until they both fall apart. Instead, he carefully untangles their legs to give Jeremy some space. “Take your time,” he murmurs.

Christine inches closer, rubbing the side of Jeremy’s arm gently. Her lower lip is swollen, like she’s been biting it, and Michael kind of can’t stop looking at it. She catches his eye, and says, “What? Did you want to give it a shot?”

It’s half-sarcastic, so that she can play it off as a joke if he says no.

But Michael says, “Yeah, I think I do,” and she gets up on her knees and kisses him. He hears Jeremy suck in a breath.

Kissing Christine is different. There isn’t the same flare of heat when she opens her mouth against him; it’s settled into a low, intense feeling that flickers in and out. She tastes like lip balm, cherry or strawberry, he can’t tell. Her nose is smaller than Jeremy’s, so they don’t spend quite so much time bumping into each other.

She lets him control the pace, as if she’s waiting for him to pull away in disgust. Instead he leans in further, bites very lightly on that red bottom lip. She squeaks, but it sounds encouraging, so he doesn’t stop.

When they pull apart, she looks – well, not quite as wrecked as Jeremy, but pretty close. “Where did you learn to kiss like that?” she asks, voice a little hoarse, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Michael points at Jeremy. “Him, like, a minute and a half ago.” Technically, Michael’s first kiss was with a boy at a summer camp in upstate New York when he was nine, but he didn’t pick up any skills from the experience.

Watching his best friend make out with his girlfriend does not seem to have helped Jeremy calm down. He’s hard, Michael can see it, thinks he can even see a wet spot on the front of his jeans. Michael can empathize. He inches back toward Jeremy. “Do you want do something about that?”

“I,” Jeremy says, then has to take a moment before he can have another shot at English. “I kind of think we should wait.” He looks like it physically hurts him to say it. “I don’t wanna go too fast and screw everything up.”

“I get it,” Michael says, nodding. He’s not sure he does, really, because in his mind, Jeremy has already made the biggest mistake he’s ever going to make, and what’s some impulsive sex compared to nearly causing the robot uprising anyway, but if Jeremy wants to wait then he can wait.

“As much as I hate the idea of stopping right now,” Christine says, and Michael guesses she must be as affected as the two of them are, “it’s probably a good idea. We need some time to make sure we really want to do this.”

“How much time is that, exactly?”

“The last time I tried to make a physical relationship happen in less than two days, it ended pretty badly. Maybe a week, just to be safe? So next Friday?” Jeremy suggests.

“A week.” Christine nods solemnly.

“A week.”

* * *

It’s a tough week. Michael’s showers are a full fifteen degrees colder than usual. Jeremy’s high-strung and twitchy, jumping whenever anyone’s shoulder or leg brushes his. And Christine is even more full of nervous energy than she normally is, which means the boys have to spend the week dodging her as she bounces off the walls of the basement like a shiny pink pinball.

Michael can’t know, but he thinks they must all be replaying the same things in their heads: the way Jeremy melted against him, Christine’s noise when he bit her lip. Michael gets caught staring at Jeremy’s mouth more times than he catches Jeremy staring at his, but Christine has them both beat.

They have to break from their usual routine on Wednesday to keep from being alone together. They meet up with everyone else in the mall’s food court instead (except for Jake, who is at basketball practice. He gave up most of the clubs he was in after the play, but basketball and drama both stuck around). Brooke and Chloe kidnap Christine to look at new jackets with them, and that’s when Rich and Jenna pounce.

“I like to think I’m an expert on relationship dynamics. Within the boundaries of Middleborough, at least,” Jenna says, steepling her fingers and leaning forward, and it sounds ridiculous except for the part where she’s right. “And something’s different with you three, but I can’t tell what.” She makes possibly the most intense eye contact with Jeremy that Michael’s ever seen in his life.

“I, I,” Jeremy starts, “I don’t know what you guys are talking about.” It’s the wrong tactic, and he seems to know it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“Yeah, you do,” Rich insists, taking a french fry off of Michael’s plate and leveling it at him like an extra finger, “obviously, and we’re gonna find out one way or another. So, you might wanna just give it up right now.” Jeremy shoots a look at Michael that he interprets as meaning either _when there was a constant presence in my head telling me what to do, this was exactly the type of situation I didn’t have to deal with, and would the end of the world really have been so terrible after all? _or _we’re screwed_.

Fine. He can think on his feet. Michael to the rescue, as usual. But as he takes a breath in, Jeremy says, “Okay, okay. Michael kinda…walked in on me and Christine this weekend. It was weird. It’s still weird,” he says, words running together like they do when he can’t remember to breathe between them, which is. Fine, for now. So is Michael’s expression, which he can feel is frozen in shock, because he thinks this is probably how they’d react to being forced to share a _true_ embarrassing secret. “Promise you won’t say anything to anyone.”

Rich seems to accept this. “Nice going, Tall-ass,” he crows, because post-Squip Rich isn’t a monster but he is still a gremlin. He puts a hand up for a high-five that Jeremy returns weakly, and mimes locking his lips before digging back into his own plate of food-shaped grease.

Jenna doesn’t look so sure, but she says, “Promise,” and drops it.

Brooke, Chloe, and Jake are going to know by the end of the day, of course, but Jenna’s gotten better about sharing gossip with total strangers in the past few months. Jeremy takes a sip of his drink – his new go-to, Diet Coke – and Michael can see that his breathing is going back to normal, so. Crisis averted.

* * *

When Friday comes around again, it feels like Michael’s been waiting his entire life for it. They talk less than usual on the way home, and Michael and Christine keep sharing nervous grins in the rearview mirror. She and Jeremy are in the backseat, holding hands.

When they get downstairs, the first thing they do is peel off their outer layers. Michael’s and Jeremy’s hoodies land in the floor in a corner, and Christine’s jean jacket – she calls it Lizzy, which Michael suspects is short for Elizabeth Warren – is lovingly hung on the doorknob. In just a t-shirt and sweatpants, he feels kind of exposed, but then again that’s probably the point.

For a moment, they all just stand there, waiting for someone else to make the first move. Then Jeremy’s brave – or maybe impatient – enough to close the gap between himself and Michael and press their mouths together. His hands are on Michael’s back, radiating heat from the center of his palms outward, and then they’re _under_ his shirt and the new press of skin on bare skin makes Michael shiver and moan into Jeremy’s mouth. His hands are on Jeremy’s waist, pulling him in, and their chests are pressed together and Michael thinks he can hear Jeremy’s heartbeat echoing through him.

When they come up for air, Christine has not moved at all. She’s watching them, as laser-focused as Michael has ever seen her. She slowly and deliberately removes the butterfly clips holding her hair back.

“Your mouth is all red,” she informs Jeremy, who reaches up and runs a finger over his lips as if to confirm it.

“It is?” he says, and he looks like he might be about to say something else but she’s already crossing the room to kiss him. She fists one hand in the front of his shirt and pulls him down to meet her, but she still has to lean on her tiptoes to reach him. It’s a powerful thing to watch – his hands cupping her face, the way she starts to press one of her legs between his – but it doesn’t look especially comfortable, so Michael clears his throat.

“Hey. Guys?” he says, and it comes out rough – is that a sex voice? Does he have a sex voice? – and they pull apart, slow, dreamlike. “Do you wanna sit down?”

“Huh,” Jeremy says, then, “Yeah,” and he sinks down onto the rug. “This was a good idea. You guys should be down here too.” He grabs Michael’s hand and tugs him down, until he’s in Jeremy’s lap, knees on either side of his hips. The rustle of clothes and shifting air mean that Christine must be on the floor too, behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look because Jeremy’s kissing him again.

Pressed close like this, he can _feel _Jeremy’s hard-on pressing against him, and that’s so much more intense than just seeing him. Jeremy must be able to feel him, too; he shifts, and his hand is there between Michael’s legs, squeezing lightly. All at once Michael’s mind is too hazy for him to focus on kissing, so he just leans his head on Jeremy’s shoulder and pants against his neck.

He doesn’t know how much time passes – it can’t be more than a minute or two, but time has stopped following strict rules and is instead dilating and constricting as it pleases, so he isn’t sure – before Jeremy whispers, “I want to blow you. Can we do that?”

Michael tries to say yes twice. The first just comes out as a whine, and the second is pathetically breathless, but at least it’s a word. He backs off of Jeremy’s lap to give him some room to maneuver, and Christine inches back too, so that he’s not quite in her lap either, but lying flat out on the rug. He looks up at her, and she gives him a supportive smile like he’s about to give an in-class presentation or something, which sparks a moment of complete tonal dissonance.

Jeremy snaps him out of it with hands tugging on his waistband, and Michael lifts his hips up so he can pull the sweatpants and his boxers out of the way, not even all the way down his thighs. Jeremy’s mouth is on him almost right away. It’s almost too much for Michael, the sheer _heat_ of him, how eager he is, and he closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

Christine touches his arm. “Hey, eyes open.” Michael obeys, and she nods toward Jeremy. “You don’t wanna miss the show.” She’s shifting, squirming; Michael realizes that she might be touching herself, but he doesn’t look to confirm it. He watches Jeremy, instead: watches the way he leans on one elbow, using his other hand to stroke what he can’t reach with his mouth, the way he looks at Michael when he pauses to catch his breath, like he can’t wait to get _more_.

Michael comes like that, thinking about what _more _might look like. His vision goes fuzzy, his fingertips numb where they’re digging into the carpet, and he cries out loudly enough that he’s grateful no one else is home. Jeremy tries to swallow around him, but he can’t quite take all of it, and he pulls back, sputtering.

By the time Michael has come back to his body enough to notice his surroundings, Jeremy has managed to find a Kleenex to cough into, and he’s mostly recovered. Michael tries to sit up, but finds he can only get himself up on his elbows; the rest of him is still boneless.

Christine, upon seeing that Michael’s conscious and regaining higher brain function, crawls over to Jeremy and says, “I think it’s my turn now,” and she kisses him, running one hand through his hair, the other taking his hand to slip it under her dress. Jeremy is clearly surprised by this turn of events, and Michael isn’t sure why until he remembers that Jeremy’s mouth almost definitely still tastes like _him_. It doesn’t faze Christine at all, which is both impressive and kind of hot.

Jeremy leans over Christine, maneuvers her down so that she’s on her back next to Michael, and she helps him get her leggings and underwear off. He doesn’t stall or wait for her, either, just presses his hand between her legs, smiling as she makes a breathy _oh_ sound. Michael can’t see exactly what Jeremy’s doing from this angle, but he _can_ see the tendons in Jeremy’s arm working as he strokes her. Michael has never found human anatomy particularly fascinating before, but he wants to study the way each muscle moves, the way they ripple and push against each other, and why it’s so fucking enticing.

Michael can tell when Jeremy first pushes his fingers into Christine; he slides in easily, and she makes a pleased noise, and he groans. “Fuck, Chris, _already?_”

“Yeah, already,” she says breathlessly. “You looked good together.” Then Jeremy does something with his thumb, and she throws her head back, and there’s no more talking for a while. Michael isn’t sure if he’s supposed to do something, so he just leans back and takes it in: the concentration on Jeremy’s face. The way Christine’s legs twitch half-closed when he does something right, trying to keep him exactly where she wants him.

Jeremy says, “Chris, if you do that, I can’t move.”

“I can’t help it!”

“Michael—can you just hold her leg?” Well, okay, then. He glances at Christine, who nods. Shifting his weight to one side, he curls his other hand around her inner thigh, pulling it up and away from Jeremy, who’s touching her again.

Her dress is rucked up around her stomach, and he can see what’s happening more clearly now: Jeremy has two fingers inside her, moving slowly, his thumb rubbing at her clit. Michael, who had been expecting to have some kind of strong reaction to seeing Christine like this, finds himself oddly neutral. It’s not unbearably sexy, but he’s not turned off or horrified either. The thing he likes best about the picture in front of him is how worked up they both look, faces flushed and hair mussed.

Moving Christine’s leg must have created a better angle, because things progress much faster now. She whimpers, says, “Faster,” and when Jeremy speeds up, she gasps and _thrashes_, once, so hard she nearly throws Michael’s hand off. She grinds down hard against Jeremy’s fingers a few times, meeting his thrusts, then goes completely limp, breathing ragged. Jeremy doesn’t stop, though, keeps going until she whines and pushes his hand away.

Michael releases his hold on her – maybe he pressed harder than he meant to, because there are stark red lines on her thigh where his fingers were – and watches as Jeremy rolls his wrist, flexes his fingers. The slickness on them catches the light, and he says, “Oh, God,” low and reverent. Michael hands him a Kleenex and he takes it mechanically, mumbling, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Michael says, because nothing sexier comes to mind even though he’d really like it to. Christine sits up, blinking heavily, and when he glances at her, she nods in Jeremy’s direction.

They advance on him in unison, Christine kissing his mouth and Michael the left side of his neck, hands running down his chest and under his shirt. It’s easy to tell what he likes; he arches into their touch, moans into Christine’s mouth, his fists clenching and unclenching before he finally takes Michael’s hand and puts it where he wants it. His jeans are already open, and he says, “Michael, _please._”

Michael says, “Fuck, yes,” and rubs his palm against Jeremy’s dick through his boxers. Jeremy shivers at that, then again, harder, when Michael gets him out of his boxers, the fabric sticky.

Christine, taking a break from Jeremy’s tongue, leans over and places her small hand on Michael’s. “Want me to show you how he likes it?”

“You two keep having such good ideas,” he murmurs. He lets her lace her fingers into his, and she shows him how fast to stroke, how much pressure to use. When exactly to twist his wrist to make Jeremy’s hips buck up, into them. How to extract a steady stream of praise and pleas from him.

When Jeremy comes, he makes a high, needy sound, whole body twitching, spilling over their hands. It’s the hottest thing Michael has ever seen, but it’s tied with Christine’s orgasm for the prettiest. They work him through it, Christine rubbing his back, Michael letting him lean heavily on his shoulder when he can’t support his own weight.

They clean up in what feels like slow motion. The boys get their pants back up with shaking hands as Christine finds her leggings and slides them back on. She staggers upstairs and returns balancing three full water glasses.

“Don’t forget to drink water,” she drawls, overextending the _r_, and Jeremy snorts as he takes his.

Michael downs his in about ten seconds and says, “That was the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Does that mean that I’m dying?”

“Probably not,” Jeremy says, at the same time as Christine says, “Yes.”

Michael shakes his head and puts his glass down. He stretches out on the floor, resting his head on Jeremy’s thigh.

“You okay?” Jeremy asks. He runs a hand through Michael’s hair, and he was right. It does feel amazing.

“I’m pretty fuckin’ spectacular,” Michael says, because to call this the best any social interaction has ever gone for him would be putting it mildly. “Wait, are you guys okay?”

“I’m doing pretty good, myself,” Christine says, scooting closer. “Thanks, Michael.”

Jeremy puts his glass down, out of the way, and leans down to look at him. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Michael knows what he wants to say, but he can’t get the words to come together in English and he knows Jeremy won’t understand him in Tagalog, so he just kisses him instead.

* * *

They’re still on the floor, sprawled together like puppies, an hour or two later. Michael’s arm is around Jeremy’s waist, pulling his back flush to Michael’s chest so he can bury his nose in the nape of his neck. Christine’s cuddled up against Jeremy, his chin resting against the top of her head.

Michael thinks they’ve both dozed off, so he’s startled when Jeremy turns his head and says, “Hey, can I show you something?”

He nods, and Jeremy takes the hand that’s been resting on his waist and brings it up to his neck. He carefully positions it so that Michael’s index finger rests near the top of his spine, about an inch to the right of the first vertebra. “Feel,” he says, and Michael does.

There’s a small but unmistakable bump there, under the skin, where it shouldn’t be. It’s perfectly shaped, square with rounded edges, too precise to be organic. Michael knows what it is right away, and he pulls his hand off as if he’s been shocked.

“It’s okay, Michael,” Jeremy says, holding very still. “You’re not gonna reactivate it.” He sighs. “I just thought you should know where it was now, so it didn’t freak you out later.”

“Well, it’s freaking me out a little now.” Michael takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn’t miss the implications of _later_. “Does it…hurt when I touch it?”

“Not unless you really push.”

“Does Christine have it there, too?”

“Yeah,” Christine says, and Michael doesn’t know when she opened her eyes, but there she is, rubbing lightly at the place on her neck where hers must be.

“Can I—” Michael cuts himself off, wondering if it breaches some code of post-Squip etiquette, then figures if anyone will forgive him it’s her, “feel yours?”

She looks like she doesn’t understand why he would want to, but she sits up and leans her head over Jeremy anyway. Michael brushes her hair back with the tips of his fingers. It’s not visible through her skin, but it’s there, all right, same as it was for Jeremy.

When he withdraws his hand, Christine straightens, and Jeremy sits up. Michael pulls them into an impulsive hug, feeling a flash of gratitude that his arms are long enough to hold both of them at once. He can feel Jeremy smile against his neck, and when he bends down and kisses the top of Christine’s head, she makes a soft sound and squeezes him tighter. They’re not going anywhere for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me at some-silver-reply.tumblr.com.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] we'll pass the mic around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683145) by [klb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klb/pseuds/klb)


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